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A CORSAIR SONG.

O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire, and behold our home!
These are our realms, no limits to their sway
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range
From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave!
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave;
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease!
Whom slumber soothes not-pleasure cannot please—
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,
The exulting sense-the pulse's maddening play,
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
That for itself can woo the approaching fight,
And turn what some deem danger to delight;
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal,
And where the feebler faint- can only feel-

Feel to the rising bosom's inmost core,

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Its hope awaken and its spirit soar?

No dread of death if with us die our foes

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Save that it seems even duller than repose:

Come when it will- we snatch the life of life.
When lost

what recks it by disease or strife?

Let him who crawls enamored of decay

Cling to his couch, and sicken years away;

Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head;

Ours the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed.

While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul,

Ours with one pang- one bound escapes control.
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave,
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave:
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
When ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.
For us, even banquets fond regret supply
In the red cup that crowns our memory;
And the brief epitaph in danger's day,

When those who win at length divide the prey,
And cry, remembrance saddening o'er each brow,
How had the brave who fell exulted now!

TRANSLATION OF A FAMOUS GREEK WAR-SONG.

SONS of the Greeks, arise!

The glorious hour's gone forth,

And, worthy of such ties,

Display who gave us birth.

CHORUS.

Sons of Greeks! let us go

In arms against the foe,

Till their hated blood shall flow,

In a river past our feet.

Then manfully despising
The Turkish tyrant's yoke,
Let your country see you rising,

And all her chains are broke.
Brave shades of chiefs and sages,
Behold the coming strife!
Hellénes of past ages,

Oh start again to life!

At the sound of my trumpet, breaking
Your sleep, oh join with me!
And the seven-hilled city seeking,
Fight, conquer, till we're free.

Sons of Greeks, &c.

Sparta! Sparta! why in slumbers
Lethargic dost thou lie?
Awake, and join thy numbers

With Athens! old ally!

Leonidas recalling,

That chief of ancient song,

Who saved ye once from falling,
The terrible! the strong!
Who made that bold diversion

In old Thermopylæ,
And warring with the Persian

To keep his country free;
With his three hundred waging
The battle, long he stood,

And like a lion raging,
Expired in seas of blood.

Sons of Greeks, &c.

FROM THE TURKISH.

THE chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound;
The heart that offered both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found.

These gifts were charmed by secret spell
Thy truth in absence to divine;
And they have done their duty well,
Alas! they could not teach thee thine.

That chain was firm in every link,

But not to bear a stranger's touch;

That lute was sweet- till thou could'st think, In other hands its notes were such.

Let him, who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shivered in his grasp,

Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

Restring the chords, renew the clasp.

When thou wert changed, they altered too,
The chain is broke, the music mute.

"Tis past

to them and thee adieu

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

STANZAS TO

THOUGH the day of my destiny's over,
And the star of my fate hath declined,
Thy soft heart refused to discover

The faults which so many could find; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, It shrunk not to share it with me,

And the love which my spirit hath painted
It never hath found but in thee.

Then when nature around me is smiling,
The last smile which answers to mine,

I do not believe it beguiling,

Because it reminds me of thine;

And when winds are at war with the ocean,
As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,
It is that they bear me from thee.

Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is delivered
To painit shall not be its slave.

There is many a pang to pursue me:

They may crush, but they shall not contemn They may torture, but shall not subdue me

"Tis of thee that I think - not of them.

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